


Safe and Sound

by GoldenGriffiness



Category: Legend of Spyro, Slender Man Mythos
Genre: Angst, Cross-Posted on FanFiction.Net, Cynder is Slenderman, Even when she's given up on herself, F/M, Hunter is the best, I take this idea extremely seariously, Likely the Weirdest Valentines Day fic you'll ever read, Monster Transformation, Originally Posted for Valentines Day, Spyro won't give up on her, Tragic Romance, friendly monster, somber
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-14
Updated: 2015-02-14
Packaged: 2018-10-22 22:40:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10706631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoldenGriffiness/pseuds/GoldenGriffiness
Summary: Spyro sets out to find Cynder, who vanished when he used his powers to mend the shattering world. But he never thought she wouldn't want to be found, and now he is left to prove his love, and his bravery in the face of terror. But after everything, will she even be willing to return? How much more can he sacrifice?





	Safe and Sound

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, this is a Valentine's Day Spyro/Slenderman crossover. Problem? ^.^
> 
> Beta-read by Riverstyxx and a lot of other wonderful people. Thank you all!
> 
> Cover by Riverstyxx
> 
> Because Valentine's Day should focus on love in its purest form, not solely on gifts and little cheap candy hearts, but on the strength that one special person can grant you to overcome your faults and fears, and how you might do the same for them.
> 
> This story is dedicated to Nikki, the little old lady of a cat who made my world brighter and who was put to sleep in my arms with what was probably the hardest, most painful decision I have yet faced. I love you, girl, I will always love you for the hardships you have helped me overcome, and all the things you have taught me about responsibility, love, and making the decision to face loss on your own terms to save another living being from needless pain. It hurt and it always will, but having you was worth it a thousand times over.

 

**_._ **

**_.._ **

**_..._ **

**_……._ **

**_I search here in the night_ **

**_With not a star to wish upon_ **

**_In the past you were my light_ **

**_But now where have you gone?_ **

**_Whatever form you happen to take_ **

**_Or however you have changed now_ **

**_I’ll be damned for all the difference it makes_ **

**_I will find a way to help you_ **

**_Somehow…_ **

**_..….._ **

**_…_ **

**_.._ **

**_._ **

  


Fallen leaves crinkled under Spyro’s feet, one of few noises to break the silence of the winter forest. No snow had fallen there in over a year, but the barren trees and browned dead moss left little question of the season. Each ruffle of the dead growth beneath his paws flooded him with a glint of hope.

 

He _wanted_ to be heard.

 

.

..

…

 

_“Who knows how her appearance could have changed.”_

 

_“The convexity fury you used to mend the world could have easily warped the existence of someone so close to the blast. She could have taken on traits of anything, from anywhere, even places we’d never heard of!”_

 

_“Young dragon, maybe it would be better not to look. If she has hidden like this, there must be a cause. I cannot see her abandoning you lightly.”_

 

_…_

 

“I love you...”

 

_…_

 

_“I won’t abandon her!”_

 

_“Who’s to say that beast would want to be found? She has served her purpose. If Malefor’s monster wishes to spare us of her presence, all the better for everyone else.”_

 

_“The council forbids you to leave, Spyro. The purple dragon is needed in this city. Would you deprive these people of their hero?”_

 

_…_

 

_“Spyro, bud, I get she means a lot to you. If you need to go, then go.”_

 

_…_

 

_“I am sorry, young dragon, that after all you have done for us, you have returned to Warfang alone.”_

 

_“...Ignitus?”_

 

_“There is a forest, not far from where you mended the realm. Creatures have fled it, and the water runs foul for no reason we can fathom. It should have mended quickly due to its closeness to your healing, yet it did not. Something is there that has no place in this realm.”_

 

 _“Then they’re_ right _?”_

 

_“The council may be short-sighted, but they are scholars of magic. Convexity’s power has been studied closely since Malefor’s time. It likely shattered the shell between worlds, and she could have been changed by factors from any other reality.”_

 

_…_

 

“I know what I have to do.”

 

“You don’t have to do anything, Spyro. Let’s just go.”

 

“Where, Cynder? The world is breaking apart. But I think I can stop it… I think I’m meant to.”

 

“Then I’m with you.”

 

“I love you.”

 

_…_

 

_“What should I do, Ignitus?”_

 

_“That, I cannot say.”_

 

_…_

 

_“Your choice, dude.”_

 

_“I can emphatically agree that this is a matter we can only lend our advice on. The true deduction is left to you, Spyro. And you alone.”_

 

_“The council is a band of fools, far from the royalty that blesses my bloodlines. Think not of what they would say, but if you need advice, ask yourself: what would Ignitus do? Without him, we, and Warfang, would not still be here.”_

 

_…_

  


_“Listen Hunter, I need a favor. Could Sparx stay with you for a while?”_

 

_“If that is where your heart leads, then follow it. A true warrior’s heart beats in your chest, young dragon. Trust it.”_

 

_“I need to do this alone.”_

 

_…_

 

_“It’s time.”_

 

_“We shall cover for you, as you young ones would say.”_

 

_“You better come back, purple boy. What would I do without you?”_

 

_“You’d keep on living, Sparx. It’s all any of us can do.”_

 

_…_

_.._

_._

  


And so there he was. The air felt heavy, but in a dry way. It sucked the moisture from his eyes and throat, even as his shallow breath left foggy stains in the air. Something in this place was certainly not right. He never could have imagined mending the world would sacrifice her. It shouldn't have been his choice to make.

 

_It should have been me. It was my decision, my fault._

 

Suddenly, a strange foreign buzzing flooded the air and Spyro jolted. He jerked his head to the side, scanning the trees. A thrill of fear he couldn't place traced his spine.

 

Nervously, he breathed a plume of flame onto his paw and brought it close to his chest. It threw light onto his burnished gold chest-plates, but brought little warmth.

 

“Cynder?” His call trailed into silence and the fire by his chest sputtered out. The night was coming and thick shadows were crawling from the trees. This forest was all but void of colour, never mind that winter had only just arrived and the fiery hues of autumn should not yet have faded. Instead, all was cold and grey. The gnarled branches cast handlike shadows upon the earth, carpeted by dead leaves that crackled underpaw.

 

Spyro drew in a slow breath and his eyes widened at a vaguely familiar scent. It was twisted and odd and stale, but it was _her_. He raced in that direction, following the scent, and arrived at a blackened tree. At first he thought it had been scorched by fire, but on closer inspection it looked like it had simply lost the will to live, slumped and shattered as it was.

 

But something white poked from under the roots and his heart leapt with the hope for any kind of clue. Drawing out the piece of weathered parchment, he unrolled it carefully. It seemed to have been written messily in charcoal.

 

 _‘I’m afraid of myself. You’d think I’d be used to it after being turned into_ her _, but still. I’ve decided to write myself these notes, like a journal, to scatter. My memory has been an odd affair and the idea of losing any remembrance of Spyro kills whatever is left of me. Maybe these can help me remember._

 

_I am lucky to have found this old parchment. Without even this meager form of entertainment, I fear I’d already have lost myself.’_

 

Even with the less than reassuring words, this was proof she _was_ there, or at least had been, in some form. Proof that she had lived through his explosion of power. His heart leapt with that. But it also worried him to no end.

 

For all he knew—or she, apparently—they were working towards a deadline, and who knew how long ago this had been written? That terrified him. He drew the paper to his chest and touched his nose to it with all the gentleness of a mother holding her egg for the very first time.

 

“What’s happened to you?” he whispered, his breath ruffling the parchment.

 

The strange static from before rang through his head, but when he turned, fearlessly this time, nothing met his gaze.

 

“I will find you,” he murmured to the sparse, dying landscape and its haunted trees.

 

They did not answer.

 

On a whim, he reached into the satchel that hung around his neck and left wing, pulling out the metal bottle of ink and a long swatch of parchment he would use to give Hunter’s hawk messages, and stowed them where the note had been. He gave the note itself a longing glance before relinquishing it as well.

 

It sounded like she needed it more. Once out of this dead forest, he could find birchbark. All the bark there looked old and brittle. If Cynder was still there, it would not be an option for her.

 

“What now?” he muttered, missing Sparx. He wasn’t good at providing his own witty banter, and ancestors knew he needed some of it.

 

The buzzing static filled the air moments later, causing him to turn and dart towards the sound. It had to mean _something._ He barreled past a few trees, but tried to skid to a stop when a flash of white and red caught his attention to the side. But when he managed to get himself facing the right direction, there was nothing there. His throat burned.

 

He leaned down to cough, his head spinning with sudden dizziness, and flopped down on the dead leaves, determinately shoving his mouth closed with his paws as he heaved and choked until the fit had passed. By the time he stumbled to his feet, he was very sure that the thing he’d seen was running away.

 

It could have easily ended him as he lay coughing on the forest floor, yet it had not. Hopefully, that meant it was Cynder—or, at the very least, something that might hold a clue to her whereabouts.

 

At least it wasn’t violent. That was never a bad thing.

 

“Hello?” His hoarse voice chafed the air, grating to the ears. “Please, listen. A friend of mine might be around here and she needs help!”

 

_The trees love to ignore me, don’t they?_

 

“I don’t want to hurt you, I promise,” he cried.

 

Still nothing.

 

Sighing, he paced weakly to the base of a tree and curled up among its knotted roots. He held no expectation of finding shelter in such a desolate wasteland, and the long weeks of flight to get there, coupled with the late hour and his bout of unexplained coughing, added weight to heavy legs. Shaking in the cold, he covered his pounding head with his wings and forced his stubborn eyes to shut.

 

“I swear I’m not forgetting, Cyn,” he murmured into the silence. “I’ll find you tomorrow and we’ll fix this. Whatever it is. _I_ _promise.”_

 

Sleep weighed down on him. Cold mist, the only moisture that seemed capable of braving the tragic forest, covered him in a less than effective blanket, sucking warmth from his limbs. Though he realised the cold would be hell on his already sore wings in the morning, he had no energy to get away from the persistent fog, and the world of dreams—or nightmares—pulled him down into their depths.

 

* * *

 

  


Spyro woke up with a gasp, shaking off the heavy something sprawled over him with raw terror in his chest. But when he spun to face his ‘attacker’ with raised hackles and writhing lips, he came face-to-face with a ratty old woven blanket. Or three of them, rather.

 

Staring at the innocent things, his thoughts immediately wavered to the ‘how,’ and more importantly, the ‘ _who._ ’

 

“Cynder? Anybody?” he called hopefully, but stillness served as his only reply.

 

Sighing, he turned around, only to pause and stare once again, having missed the other additions to his sorry excuse for a campsite. Three straggly rabbits lay dead before him, ribs showing. They were marked only by a viscous dark red liquid that trailed from their mouths and nostrils, something he could recognize. Sometimes, when small prey animals were afraid enough, the heart could run too fast and somehow break. They could, quite literally, be scared to death.

 

Spyro detected no poison through smell or observation and could see little reason for someone to leave his sleeping form quite alive, only to attempt murder through other means. So he made quick work of the rabbits, grimacing at their tough, stringy muscles and mud-stained fur.

 

“Thanks?” he asked the desolate forest when he was done, but once again the dead trees did nothing to answer.

 

He turned to drag his new blankets towards the relative safety of a tree, only to notice a scrap of parchment there. His parchment, gilded purple on the edges.

 

 _‘Please leave, Spyro. There is nothing you can do here but hurt yourself, and I cannot leave with you. I am sure others need you more than I, with problems that_ can _be solved. This forest is not fit for you or anyone to stay in, so please, please, just go.’_

 

While the writing was better than the scrawl from before, it was still a far cry from the elegant claw-script he had once seen her use. Whether this meant _imposter_ , or simply that Cynder was in bad shape, the fact remained that he was hardly leaving.

 

“If it’s not fit for anyone, then why are you still here?” he murmured to the air. At least his throat felt better. “I won’t leave you, just like you wouldn’t leave me.”

 

After a moment’s deliberation, he tucked the note inside his satchel and turned to face the forest, eying the trees carefully. There had to be some sort of clue to tell him which way she had gone. Hopefully, he lowered his nose to the earth and drew in a deep breath. He caught that disturbingly warped scent again and resolved to track it.

 

The day dragged on after that, and the trail didn’t cease. She seemed to be wandering aimlessly, leaving only that strange scent behind. Even the cold earth didn’t seem to care about her comings and goings, as no pawprints remained. The twisting, intertwined tree limbs made it unlikely she was flying, and he certainly didn’t wish to attempt it.

 

By midday, he stumbled across another note—finally, _something_ that showed signs of life. The script was better than the first, but not as good as the note he’d received.

 

 _‘I never realized the privilege of eating. Not until I could no longer do it. I feel a hunger in my soul rather than my stomach, and it has become a piercing pain in my chest. My soul feels broken and drowned, and my mind is muffled from the world, like a great water is flowing through me. I don’t even know if there is a heart in my chest any longer, or if there’s even a bit of_ me _left to find. It’s hard not to surrender what’s left. With no voice or breath and only a strange sense of sight even I cannot really comprehend, would giving up be so terrible?_

 

_The only time I felt that ache ease was when I tried to go for help, but the first dragon that looked at me fled at once, and it felt almost as if his terror brought me back to clarity, let me recognise the pain as hunger for the first time._

 

_Do I feast on fear alone now? Is this what I have become? I refuse to hurt anyone, and so I’ll spirit myself away from civilization as best I can._

 

_If I starve, so be it._

 

_I’m so sorry, Spyro, but it looks like you’ll be returning to Warfang alone.’_

 

“What’s happened to you, Cyn? You don’t give up like this… Not ever…” After placing the note back, Spyro squared his shoulders and screamed to the dead forest, loud enough to lance fire up his sore throat. “I don’t care what’s happened to you; _I’m not leaving without you_!”

 

He had no idea if she heard, but even promising the silent air gave him an inkling of hope. And so the wandering continued. Hours blurred from minutes and into days, and the notes didn’t end. Each one stabbed his heart with icy talons.

 

.

..

…

……

 

 _‘What’s the point? I cannot die, even as I starve. I don’t know what I am, or even_ who _half the time. Life is filtering from the forest._

 

_I…_

 

_I think it’s my fault, that I’m the cause._

 

_I’m sorry! I don’t want to hurt anything, but I can’t help it. I just want it all over. I’d welcome nothing over whatever this sorry life is, if it can even be called that._

 

_…_

 

_I killed a rabbit today, and it was pointless. I don’t even know how._

_All I did was look at it and it seized up, coughing. I tried to flee, but I couldn't. From the second it saw me, I froze. I could only watch it hack until it collapsed. The only mark on it was blood trailing from its nose and mouth._

 

_I knew what it was, but I hadn't seen it since I was the Dark Master’s monster. Its heart had burst. I’d tortured beasts with my fear before, but what does it mean that all it had to do was look at me to die?_

 

_Would that happen if anyone else looked for too long? If so…_

 

_I can’t even move. If that happens, they’re dead. And all I can do is watch._

 

_I wish you were here, Spyro. I miss you. Does it hurt you just as bad? Did you even hear me? I’m sorry I left._

 

_I love you…_

 

_Please move on, and live. The thought of you missing me…forever, not moving on…_

 

_It kills me._

 

_…_

 

_I’ve decided to act like I’m writing to him. To you, Spyro._

 

_Maybe it’s silly and maybe it’s ridiculous. I pray to the ancestors you never come to this forsaken place, never read this sorry obituary. Any form of my life that mattered died with this form._

 

_I wonder who will miss me. I know you will. Will the Guardians? Hunter? Sparx? If my wishes came true, he’d be like a brother to me too, wouldn’t he? Could that ever have happened?_

 

_I dream of you responding to what I said. I haven't heard them, or any other words, for what feels like forever._

 

 _When I doze_ — _though this sorry excuse for sleep is far from restful_ — _I swear I hear your laugh. You were always so alive… So real in a way I don’t think this body can reach anymore. You were my home and I’d die for you. I wonder if you’d feel like that, too._

 

_I wish I’d told you sooner. Wish we’d had that chance. You only realize what you have when it’s gone, huh? You mean more to me than my own life. I wish I’d realized, said so, sooner._

 

_I hope you heard me, because I’ve never said anything truer. You gave me the only part of my life worth anything. Without you, I would only have been Malefor’s monster._

 

_Even with the prospect of forever like this… I don’t regret a moment with you. Not a single snip of time. You gave me my life. I cannot regret giving it back._

 

_It’s the least you deserve._

 

_…_

 

_I’m so sick of the cold, and of this dark forest. Worse is that the cold feels natural._

 

_Please, just let it end somehow._

 

_Show me a way home._

 

_A way out._

 

_Something._

 

_Anything._

 

_…_

 

_I think I’m just about the only living thing left. The desolation has caused the closest town to flee. With no one left, I can wander the streets. Paths and old homes feel alien to me, the ghost of a memory that doesn't hold a bit of clarity or truth anymore._

 

_Spyro, you’re the only thing that feels real from my past. Except the waking nightmares. I never would have thought that, after all I have done, tried, loved and lived…I’m a monster again. Perhaps not cold-blooded or cruel, but just as dangerous and just as cold._

 

_I’ve tried blankets and fire, but nothing stems the chill in my blood and bone. I’m not a dragon anymore; I barely look like one. I’m pale; my claws and spines are fleshy and strange. My blades are gone. Not to mention my blank face._

 

_My wings are useless. Just as I can’t mark the earth, I cannot make the wind move to my will and fly. My steps are light and silent; writing feels like a miracle. My elements have left me and it feels like the death of an old friend. The only friend I’ve had since I hatched. The only thing that stayed mine throughout everything._

 

_There’s nothing left for me._

_  
_ _I don’t even have a way to end it._

 

_…_

 

_I’m sick of being alone. In a moment of stupidity, I went searching for someone, anyone, with a note tied around my neck._

 

‘Don’t be afraid. Don’t be afraid.’

 

_I wandered into the closest town not yet deserted. The felines took one look and ran while I was frozen. I don’t think anyone even noticed the words. I doubt they even took the time to take in what they were running from._

 

_That town’s deserted now, too; they didn’t even pause to take their possessions. Dolls, staves, fine metal and bulb-spider’s silk. Nothing was spared abandonment._

 

_I’m so sorry. I swear I didn't mean it. Please don’t be afraid. I’m sorry; I was stupid. Now no one’s close enough. I never hear voices anymore, except the wind and the water. Even those noises are dying as green is fading from my world._

 

_I’ll go back to the forest. I’ll stay there and never bother you again._

 

_Just please, please, please… Bring those voices back?_

 

_I’m sorry._

 

_So sorry._

 

_It was all I had left._

 

_Come back?_

 

_Please…_

 

_…_

__

 

He yelled himself hoarse after that, wanting to give her something to listen to, barreling blindly through the woods. It was stupid. It was reckless. It ended about as well as one would expect.

 

His foot caught a tree root, sending him tumbling as a heavy _crack_ that he felt more than heard lanced through his ankle. Pain followed a second later, like fire burning up his leg, but he had no chance to gasp. The world was spiralling out of control, a blur of colour, as the rocky riverbed rose up to meet him. Stabbing pain pierced his side, his head struck the ground, and then there was nothing.

 

He awoke to tiny hands massaging his nose and cracked his eyes open to see two achingly familiar faces.

 

“Mom? Dad?” His voice was hoarse. “Is that…” He shut his eyes as the world spun dizzyingly off-axis.

 

“Yes,” said the gentle voice of his dragonfly mother. “Hush, Spyro, you’re hurt.”

 

Hurt… Just that word was enough to jolt his dazed mind back into action. He forced his mind to think rationally, moving it away from the fact he was finally with his parents again. Even still, he could only force Cynder’s plight to the back of his mind, and the worry sank freezing claws into him and helped him stay focused.

 

“Spirit gems. Those red, spiky rocks; can you get a chunk?” he asked, wincing in pain.

 

“Spyro, we need to help you...”

 

His mother trailed off as Spyro shook his head, feeling the trickle of fresh blood down his face. “Mom, trust me, that _is_ helping. Get them here as fast as you can.”

 

His mother hesitated and the look in her eyes seemed to suggest that she no longer recognised him. Vaguely, he wondered if he’d ever talked back to her as a hatchling. Maybe he was no longer the child she remembered. There was a hurt there, too, and he felt bad, as if he was brushing her off. But she was fine and Cynder wasn’t, and he had to get back.

 

He pleaded with his eyes and she turned to his father. “Flash, go. Return swiftly.”

 

Without another word, she turned back to Spyro. He just barely caught the worried glance his father shot back at them before he darted off.

 

“Is Sparx…?” she asked tentatively, her voice trailing off hopefully.

 

“I didn't want him in this place,” Spyro murmured, lowering his gaze. “For that matter, how and why are you here? It isn’t safe for _me_ here, let alone dragonflies.”

 

His mother placed a calming hand on his muzzle. “Sweetie, you're in the swamp. There is no danger here.”

 

“Then how am I here?” His heart lurched into his throat and he could almost taste excitement. Was it her? Could she be there? “Did you see what brought me?”

 

“No, Spyro, I’m sorry. We thought you’d somehow fallen. There were no tracks.”

 

Then it _was_ her! He struggled to get back up. “I have to go back. Someone important needs me.”

 

Fire lanced in his mother’s kind eyes. “Absolutely not. Sit back down. You’re in no condition to stand, let alone travel.”

 

“I’ll be fine soon as I get some spirit gems, Mom. They’ve fixed worse. If I don’t leave, I might lose her, and she’s worse off than me even if she isn’t hurt.”

 

“Dear, at least explain. What are those stones, if not simple crystals, and who is it you worry for so?”

 

“Spirit gems. They heal dragons—that’s what I am, Mom—because the ancestors…which are...uh…dead dragons…blessed them?” It became a question when he realized just how ridiculous it sounded against simple dragonfly beliefs. Dead was simply dead to them. “I’m looking for Cynder. She’s a very good friend who has saved my life more than once. She means a lot to me and she’s hurt badly, in a very permanent way. I need to find her.”

 

His mother’s eyes sparked at the last bit, as any mother’s might. At least now she understood his rush. “Is this Cynder like you?”

 

“She’s a dragon too, yes. She’s from the same place I am,” he muttered.

 

“So, is she a sister? From the same clutch of eggs?”

 

 _“No_. She is not.” Thank goodness. The emphatic air of his voice left little question of what she did mean to him.

 

“Ah, then I suppose you should go, so long as it’s after you show us these ‘blessed’ rocks working. On you. And I expect you to return as soon as you can with Sparx and this Cynder, so we might meet her properly.”

 

 _And properly assess if she’s worthy to look at you funny, let alone have any interest in you whatsoever_ , was written upon her face, if not outwardly stated.

 

He might have had the strength to snap his insectine mother in two with a single toe, but Spyro quailed under that stern look as any child would. “O-of course, Mom.”

 

It was to this scene that Flash returned, lugging the biggest chunk of red crystal he could manage and glancing between the two. “Somebody hasn’t lost their touch,” he told his wife, laughlines wrinkling his diminutive face.

 

Spyro had missed that smile more than the world and he spent moments enjoying it before asking his father to drop the sacred gem by his feet. As it fell, it dissolved with a flash into little more than energy, which darted into Spyro’s scales and washed him with a crimson glow. It chased the pain away and he stood up without issue.

 

“May I go now?” he squeaked, like he had as a child with his paws caught in the figurative cookie jar—cheeks bright and eyes wide. Many would laugh at seeing the hero of the realms in such a state. “I swear I’ll come back as soon as I can!”

  


Spyro hadn’t realized how close the forest was to his old home. The trek was rough until he found some more red gems, and it wore on him even after. He felt he lacked the buoyancy to fly, and the dead landscape appearing before his paws crept into his heart and soul.

 

Part of him died when he entered the withered forest again. Mentally, he’d named it the Deadlands. However terrible of a name, it fit the desolate place. Occasionally, the earth would gain a slight tremble under his pads, a faint buzz up his legs. He was convinced then that he was tracing Cynder’s unmarked steps. The buzzing seemed to travel along with her like a cloak.

 

Once again, dusty old leaves crackled under his feet as he walked betwixt groping dead trees with their ever-peeling bark. This time he did not call to her. This time he knew she did not wish to be found. Best to sneak up on her, then.

 

He leant down to sniff at the dead leaves that furnished the forest floor and sneezed out dry dust. His nostrils buzzed oddly for a moment as he experimentally placed his paw on that area. It was met with that same light, airy tingle.

 

She may have lost the strange exotic scent she used to bear, like spice and autumn and snow. She may have lost that shimmer of life that bounded within her. She may have lost the hope that had drawn her from Malefor’s taint. But he refused to lose her. It was not a body or a husk he had slowly grown to love, it was her—the fire in her soul, her courage. Her willingness to face a world that feared or hated her, and to face it well.

 

His pace quickened and each pawstep brought that same buzz with it, both a disturbance and a relief at once. As the forest flashed by, he realized he was matching strides—steps that were almost the same as his.

 

Then he saw it. And everything was on _fire._

 

Fear clamored through his head.

 

She didn’t want him there. Didn’t want him. Didn’t want help.

 

His throat burned as he fought to keep looking at the still figure, to analyze _what_ he was seeing.

 

Wouldn't accept help. Would stay here. Would be alone. Forever. Left to the desolation. Left alone. Lonely.

 

Were these his fears, or hers? His knees trembled and it felt like the joints were melting, an achingly dry magma that crawled up and over every bone within him.

 

He’d never again see that spark in this new, vacant face. Never again see her ferocity for staying alive. Never hear ‘I love you’ again… Never see her again.

 

With that last barrage of fear, it all became too much. Pressure exploded inside his head and forced his eyes closed as every bone in his body seemed to give way at once. Blackness crawled into his sight and then overtook it, leaving nothing.

  


In some meager regard to his dignity, this time he did not try to attack the blankets. In retrospect, he didn’t have the strength _to_ attack them.

 

But why was he so sore? He remembered his parents, remembered his stubborn mom, remembered tracing the static… And then it came up completely blank. Nothing. Nothing but a strange blur of fear.

 

Confusion set in as Spyro shook his head wearily and waited for his strength to return. He spent the time digging at his memory, desperately looking for anything that made a lick of sense. But all he remembered was a heart-quaking onslaught of terror. Fears he’d been holding onto since he’d found the traces in Cynder’s Deadlands, and before. Fears of her rejection that even predated that. They hurt, but they had never been so crippling.

 

Those worries didn’t mesh so hard with physical pain. Had something spiked his fear? Drugged him? He didn’t understand.

 

It turned out that Ignitus had just as terrible timing as his predecessor. Just as Spyro was stumbling to his feet once more, his eyes rolled back and, once again, he was forced to pass out. It really was an undignified habit.

  


“Ignitus? Ignitus, are you here?” Spyro cried from his place on the floating stone platform. It was sad, he was forced to realize, that the secluded and likely imaginary place amongst the moons and stars was less lonely than the desolate forest in which his physical form lay. “I don’t know what I can do anymore…”

 

“Young dragon, you have the heart of a warrior. If you wish to approach her, you must lay it to rest.”

 

“What does that mean? I don’t understand.” Spyro stepped to the edge of the platform, trying to hold himself back from saying it was the old Chronicler’s job to be cryptic, that Ignitus didn’t have to do it too.

 

“Terrador has always been wise, young dragon. Do you recall his advice on the matter?”

 

Spyro shook his head helplessly. “He said a true fighter doesn't live without fear, but has the ability to fight it. But what’s that got to do with Cynder?”

 

A sigh fell through the moonlit void. “Spyro, Cynder has not befallen any curse or spell known to this realm, or truly any malignant magic at all. There are many worlds, universes that are not meant to touch, to collide, in any way. Somehow, your convexity breached that barrier and tore the traits she now bears from something else entirely. I have done all I can to learn what from, but all I can say for sure is that it spurs, and feeds on, fear. To combat it, you would either have to resist that fear thoroughly, or find a way to block her power to cause it.”

 

Spyro shivered. “So that’s why it’s all I can remember. She can’t help it, can she?” He shook his head. “That’s obvious. Of course she can’t. Ignitus, what do I do?”

 

“Young dragon, if you are to have any hope of approaching her, you must put every worry, every ounce of fear, to rest. Instincts, nightmares, fear of failure, all such things must be completely purged from your mind. If you would like to see about blocking it, Hunter may know best.”

 

His head spun with all the fears he knew he held, the things that would only keep him from her. “Ignitus, how is that even possible? Terrador said that you can’t kill fear, only fight it! I’m not strong enough for that!”

 

“I do not yet know, young dragon, whether this must be accomplished by talisman, magic, or mere strength of mind. For now, all I can do is search. Perhaps while I do, you can work on convincing our dear friend to let us lend our aid. I believe that if you stay as calm as you can and try to get her to approach without looking, she will not be forced to feed from you. In addition, think about other things that might help, but be aware, I feel that you must only face your fears should you take this route, and fight them the whole way through. Allow me to do this while you work. It is the least our world, and I, owe the both of you. Should I discover anything, I shall contact you again.”

 

_Spyro. Cynder._

_I’ve never done right by either of you._

_Allow me to do this._

 

The last thing thought before Spyro faded back into reality was a mental plea to never hear those words from his mentor again. The thought of losing Ignitus once more was yet another fear to add to the list.

  


Despite everything he had managed to do for the world, Spyro had never thought himself brave. Now, if he wanted to save Cynder, he didn’t have a choice in the matter.

 

He strode to what he figured was the Deadlands’ heart, closed his eyes, and yelled with all the voice he had. “Cynder! My eyes are closed. I’m not moving until I feel that buzzing and get to talk with you. I won’t try to look at you. I won’t turn in your direction. I’ll stick my face to a tree-trunk if that’s what I have to do. If that doesn't work, I’ll survive and go get some more paper and we can talk that way. I am not going to leave you, I am not going to forget you, and you might as well deal with it. I will keep chasing you if I have to. I know how, and we both saw how well that turned out!”

 

The waiting was agony. His instincts screamed against the black behind his closed eyelids, against the silence. There was only the cool blanket of chilled mist on his scales and the crumbled mess of dead leaves beneath his paws. He didn’t dare move for fear he would scare her away or make it seem he was breaking his freshly sworn promises.

 

Then the buzzing came and he couldn't help but flinch. It receded again and he chanced another call. “No, it’s fine, Cyn. You just startled me. I was worried you wouldn't come.”

 

The buzzing slowly, painfully, tentatively amplified. Spyro fought the sting of fear up his spine, fought against his instincts to keep his eyes tightly shut. When he started to shiver, the buzzing faded again.

 

“No, keep coming. I’ll wag my tail if it’s too much, okay? Like this.” He wove his tail in a circle. “I can do that even if I’m having trouble talking. I’ll tell you where to stop. I don’t care what happened. I love you too, Cynder. I want to have you near me. I trust you.”

 

Silence had never hurt so much.

 

“I’ve missed you, you know,” he said, hoping to urge her closer. “Sparx has too, even though he’d never say it out loud. And, uh, if that’s not brain-bending enough, Ignitus is the Chronicler now! He, uh, I just talked to him! We’re trying to figure out how to help you. I wonder if being able to talk to him is because of his magic or because I’m a seer, like with the mystic pool. I am one, you know. I, uh, found out for sure. I don’t really like it. I have enough magic packed in here already, if you ask me.”

 

His bones were starting to buzz uncomfortably and so he snuck in the plea for stopping like the most casual of sentences. “I think that’s as close as I can do, sorry, Cyn. I don’t even know where you are. Could you leave a mark or something? Knowing how close I can get could be helpful. I hope this is helping. I found the note about the voices. I wish there was more I could do.

 

“So, Cyril’s got a crush, Cynder. This beautiful ice dragoness came around and now he’s acting like a hatchling! Volteer and the new Fire Guardian, Inferna, won’t shut up for a minute. It’s kind of fun to watch. They're just teachers and councilmembers now. About the only councilmembers I actually like. I feel more like a flag than a dragon sometimes, some sorta weird symbol or something.”

 

“Oh, uh, I was wondering, if people seeing you is most of the problem, maybe you could cover yourself? It’d also help a lot if you could just leave a note describing what you look like, as best you can. I know it might hurt, but I don’t know if Ignitus can see you, and it might help him figure out where the traits came from…

 

“That’s right, you might not know. We know what happened. That’s gotta be the first step to fixing it, right? Either way, we _are_ gonna get you as comfortable as we can in the meantime. It’d help to know if there’s anything you need or want. Ignitus thinks you literally eat fear now, so you were right about that. We’re going to keep on working at this, Cyn, no matter what.

 

“Oh, and Sparx started calling you sis and now he can’t stop himself. It’s pretty much adorable…”

 

Spyro talked until he was hoarse, about anything and everything, and the buzzing never got better. However, he began to cope with it. And that was the first step.

 

When he opened his eyes to find her mark, he had to wonder about the symbol. A circle was etched into the carnage of dead leaves and through it stretched an ‘X.’

 

He considered it for a while and shrugged before going to curl up beneath his ratty blankets and stoke a fire. There was plenty of dry wood and kindling. He only stopped to loudly—and sorely—announce to the distant buzzing that she was welcome at his impromptu camp, and that she’d caused no problems while he’d slept.

 

“Well,” he muttered, curled tail-tip to muzzle under his pile of flimsy blankets. “It’s a start, Cyn. It’s a start.”

 

And that it was.

 

Gamey rabbits were arguably a better breakfast than nothing at all, and it seemed that Cynder had also deemed to stack a pile of firewood during the night. Didn’t she ever sleep? The stack was huge! The fire was still burning well, too. Spyro tried to shout a ‘thank you’ with his hoarse voice, but gave up. He couldn't hear the buzzing, anyway. He turned to his breakfast, wondering. Hadn’t one of the notes mentioned sleep in some form…? He wished he could have taken them with him, but it seemed like she needed them for very real reasons.

 

After a few moments of silence, he set himself to climbing the nearest towering corpse of an oak tree. A few parched leaves still clung to this one, thin, papery and very much dead. The tip of his wing brushed one, ever so slightly, and the ghostly white leaf crumbled to dust before his eyes. The powder fell, no wind to scatter it, and joined the smattering of its dead fellows on the forest floor.

 

Spyro found himself staring at the ghostly crumble beneath him, awkwardly clinging to old withered bark. He shook his head to clear it and dragged himself to a branch broad enough to sit on. He lay upon it, tail dangling behind him, letting one forepaw hang, and kept his wings firmly furled at his sides. There he studied the devastated forest before him—a devastation Cynder had wrought with no ill intent or action but merely walking betwixt its trees. A creeping worry slithered through his heart.

 

“I’ve found her. Finally.” His voice was barely a whisper, exhaling white mist into the air. “I’ve really, really, finally found her. But what now?”

 

There was no easy answer, and that fact weighed on his shoulders and splintered ice into his chest. He’d thought he could bring her home and work from there, that with the Guardians’ help he could study Cynder’s condition and work towards fixing it.

 

But Cynder had been right, and incredibly brave, to seclude herself like this.

 

She wasn’t afraid of petty things like how she looked or what she was. She was afraid of hurting people, and after losing his own head to the darkness twice, that was something Spyro could understand.

 

He couldn’t spirit her home. There was no way to bring her to the city, let alone into it. Maybe if he had someplace with solid walls? But no, he could hardly risk Warfang with the desolation she unintentionally wrought.

 

But maybe he was looking at this wrong. He knew there were ways to block a dragon’s magic or pull it away. He’d been at the receiving end of dark gems frequently enough after his three-year stasis, and fear _had_ been one of Cynder’s elements back then. Even if whatever entity she had gotten these traits from didn’t have depletable magic, part of her was still a dragon. Perhaps if they could get a chunk of dark crystal around her neck, or anything else that could drain a dragon’s elemental reservoir… And a cloak to muffle the sickening static? It could also help to hide her.

 

He’d have to ask her for paper to try to get this set up, because there was no way in hell he’d leave to get it, for fear she wouldn't be there when he got back.

  


Days later, the notes had been sent. Spyro waited anxiously for the reply. Cynder was mostly away, doing whatever she did. She left him notes and he’d taken to etching little things into the dusty treebark for her to find and read. She’d tried her best to explain what she looked like in a note, but it hadn’t made much sense to him. White scales made sense, if they were even scales anymore—she hadn’t thought so. He could picture the black belly and pure white wings.

 

A blank face was harder to imagine. A tail that split into fleshy tendrils even more so. Her being covered in cloth sounded slightly ridiculous. He’d told her she honestly didn’t sound all that scary. She’d promised she was laughing inside when he admitted he feared that he’d said the wrong thing.

 

The notes seemed to gain some cheer as a week passed by. The deep wood with the tall gangling trees seemed to regain a little life, that faint kind of luster that lifted hearts but was anything but visible.

 

Though she had avoided him at first, the buzzing had begun to dog his footsteps. While it was never pleasant, it filled him with relief to know she was near. His throat remained sore, but he ignored it. That pain was nothing compared to that which had eased in his chest at being near her again.

 

He liked to think that the hardest part had come and gone. He had received a letter from Hunter’s startled hawk. The poor bird had circled over the forest, trembling and screeching until he had been forced to fly up to meet it. He had frowned at the strain such a simple flight had caused his wings, taking notice again that his horns seemed tarnished and dusty, his scales lustreless and pale, and his muscles weaker. This forest was draining him.

 

He had shaken the thought away stubbornly. Cynder needed him there. He would overcome the effects or die trying.

 

The poor bird had rested on one of his horns for a few shaking moments before shooting away without waiting for a return letter. Spyro had plummeted back through the brittle foliage to look at the note, leaves cracking and crumbling to dust in his wake. It said they expected to arrive in three days’ time. They were bringing a large sealed container, some dark gems, and some other items known to suppress various kinds of power from the sprawling array of sentients across the Dragon Realms.

 

He had told Cynder most of it, except for a few personal requests he had made to Hunter alone. The cheetah tribe were skilled in the art of concocting herb mixtures of many kinds, so he had asked Hunter to bring those that could block each of the senses. If one of the five senses was the root of her power, and could be blocked to nullify the effect on him, he would be able to stay with her in the traveling cell if necessary.

 

If that failed, Hunter would also bring a sedative strong enough to knock him out for the journey, as they already knew Cynder did not hold her unwanted power over the sleeping. They would extract him and wake him up so he could help deal with the fools in Warfang when they were almost there.

 

Calling his thoughts back to the present, Spyro stretched and wormed from his blankets. Cynder had recovered a few slightly less worn ones from the abandoned town. He had told her they helped, and they did, but this place still left him with sore bones and aching limbs each morning.

 

But today was the day Terrador and Hunter were meant to arrive, and he had to meet them before they tried to brave the forest and caught Cynder unaware. So, with any luck, this draining forest would be nothing but a memory to him, and to Cynder, before long.

 

He grabbed the latest note, searching for a part of the paper that hadn’t yet been scrawled over by either of them in their endless responses. Finding none, he turned to the closest tree, which was covered with blackened writing. He had given her his ink and taken to making his own charcoal for writing. Otherwise, when using trees, he would superheat a claw to leave his writing indented and scorched into the bark. Her ink writing was faded on the tree, but his had remained.  

 

Finding somewhere blank, he scrawled _‘Going to go meet them, please wait here, love you’_ and regretfully flapped into the air, gritting his teeth as the wind battered his sore wing membranes.

 

The sunlight seemed foreign when he broke through the trees and above the suffocating mists. It melted some of the pain away, and the warm air soothed his throat. Gathering his bearings, he made his slow way towards the Silver River. He still ached terribly, but there was something liberating about being out of the trapping woods. Hunter’s hawk had come at night, so it had been less noticeable while he had been trying to calm the frantic creature.

 

When Spyro reached the river, he landed and leaned down to gulp water that lacked the forsaken dustiness of the desolated forest. It caressed and soothed his sore throat and, liking the feeling, he dipped into the water to try and scrub the evidence of his troubles from his scales. When he got out of the water and looked at his reflection, he wilted.

 

He looked terrible. Cheeks that were usually full looked slumped and flabby. Scales that should be as vibrant as polished amethyst seemed bleached and greyish, like he hadn’t just washed all that dust away. His eyes, too, seemed distant and sunken in his face, and his horns not as smooth as they ought to be.

 

Spyro swallowed nervously, but was grateful he had taken proper notice. If the others had found out he hadn’t even realized it had gotten this bad, and had he only realized after talking to them, they would have only been more worried.

 

Bracing himself, he started the trek downstream. They had agreed to walk along the left bank until running into each other, as none of them wanted to see again what Malefor had done to the temple that Spyro had once called his second home, and they didn’t know of another good landmark to work with.

 

He had walked for about an hour and was taking a second rest, legs weak, when they found him. Sparx was the first, slamming into his muzzle in a hug so hard it stung. Hunter was the second, pacing forward and placing one padded paw on Spyro’s shoulder.

 

Volteer and Terrador told the four burly earth dragons holding the portable cell to stop and place it down. They did, with evident relief. They had the look of trained soldiers who could stop their breath on command if ordered to. Terrador had promised to bring his best and swear them to secrecy.

 

Even Volteer was silent at first, looking aghast at Spyro’s condition. “I see that what Hunter relayed about the unfortunate draining effect was accurate,” he murmured with uncharacteristic gravity. He rummaged in the pack strapped to his chest and pulled out three large strips of boar, seasoned with garlic, honey and cinnamon. To a dragon who had been living off of starved rabbits for a week, it smelled amazing.

 

Volteer pawed over the treat and Spyro tried his best to scarf it down politely. He failed and ended up all but inhaling the food as Sparx wrinkled his face comically and the others looked at him with traces of pity. He wasn’t exactly fond of the taste, having grown up on wild-caught game, but he knew he needed the extra energy sweetness added to food.

 

Spyro coughed sheepishly, turning to Volteer and forcing a smile. “So, this where you get your energy?” The bad joke was politely ignored. Taking a deep breath, Spyro continued. “So, what did you bring?”

 

Volteer opened his mouth, but received a look from Terrador that stopped him cold. He gave the Earth Guardian a nod. Terrador looked to Spyro, his face serious.

 

“We have the dark crystals and a few different sets of suppressant jewelry and shackles…” Before Spyro could argue, he cut him off. “Unfortunately, we did not have time to remake them as anything else. We have the cell made of sound-suppressant material, and a few normal but heavy cloaks that may muffle this buzzing noise you have described. Another option you may wish to consider is your potential ability to freeze her in time, as you did the both of you in the Well of Souls, but that would be a last resort. Volteer is here to try and study what could be causing these effects, and what happened to her, and will stay here with you while we travel back to look for more options should all else fail.”

 

Spyro nodded grimly before walking over to Terrador and silently wrapping his legs around a foreleg. He squeezed briefly, then walked to Volteer and did the same. While Terrador stayed fairly stoic, only dipping his head so his breath washed comfortingly over Spyro’s forehead, Volteer scooped him up to his chest, causing him to squeak in surprise. The Electric Guardian cradled him for a full minute, and Spyro couldn't complain. He lay his forehead against his elder’s shoulder and let out a strangled sob.

 

Sparx was by his horn in half a second, having remained silent since they’d found each other. One twiggy arm wrapped around his horn, and a tiny hand rubbed his forehead in gentle circles. “Hey,” Sparx murmured. “You found her and now you’ve got us here to help. We’re here now.”

 

It continued for a good while, until Spyro let the last pent-up sob loose and got back to focusing on the problem at hand. Terrador scooped him up and let him rest on his back without so much as a word as they began the trek back to Cynder’s forest. The walk and flight had left Spyro wearied, and he found himself falling asleep with Sparx on his shoulder, his cheek pressed against the back of Terrador’s neck. The rhythmic thumping of the laden guards, walking in time to share their burden of the travelling cell, was not enough to rouse him.

* * *

 

They stopped by the forest. Hauling the portable cell was slow work, and they let Spyro sleep outside of the eerie forest’s influence for another while, unwilling to wake him. They had taken out the packs they had brought from Warfang and were rearranging the quantities they had planned to be taken in to take account for Spyro’s worsened health.

 

Hunter was sitting on a sick but sturdy tree, a pad of parchment and a quill on one knee as he reassessed proper doses of the various concoctions he had brought. On occasion he would call a question to Volteer, who was studying the edge of the forest and taking various samples, and would call back the answer so quickly it usually took a few minutes for Hunter to work it out.

 

Sparx woke up before Spyro and helped what little he could by moving the smaller dark gems that drained the dragons if they got near. They had to take some from the containers to make them less heavy. It was he who finally broached the topic, worry weighing on his narrow shoulders. “He looks awful. What if none of this works? He can’t stay here forever. He’ll kill himself before he leaves Cynder.”

 

“Then the best thing we can do is to make this work,” Terrador rumbled, “and get them both to Warfang where we can deal with these concerns. For now, we can make sure Spyro gets adequate resources and set up a physician nearby he can visit while we continue to plan. With any luck, this at least, will work.” He nodded to the metal bunker. “We are constructing somewhere in the underground ruins where Cynder will be comfortable and safe without affecting the surrounding life.”

 

“And intelligence or magic will most often persevere in the face of these conundrums, however disastrous,” Volteer said, pacing forwards. “If I can isolate the cause of this catastrophic decay, I will inevitably find a cure.”

 

Sparx nodded, unsatisfied, and flew back to his brother.

 

“We better get this thing moving, then,” he said as he prodded Spyro’s shoulder. “The waiting’s killing me and I bet Blackie isn’t doing any better. He’s probably been gone longer than she expected.”

 

Spyro was roused with a low whine, panicked when he realized how long he had slept, and fidgeted throughout Terrador explaining the first load of attempts—which included a long cloak to completely cover Cynder, so perhaps he wouldn't freeze upon seeing her, a few different necklaces enchanted to suppress psychic abilities, and a box of dark crystals to see if her new magic could be drained. He’d wanted to take more, but Terrador had refused and, likewise, Spyro refused their attempts to convince him to let one of _them_ perform the tests. He was sure he had built up some resistance, and feared that Cynder wouldn’t let anyone else approach her. Even still, Volteer had all but force-fed him more of the over-sweetened meat strips.

  


Trying each thing was exhausting, hopeless, and painful. His bones felt like they were about to shake loose, and Cynder had informed him in no questionable terms that he was spending the night before trying to fly from the forest with the load he carried. He accepted and spent another cold night tangled and thrashing in his sleep with worry.

 

In the morning, they agreed, with the use of a new pad of parchment Hunter had given Spyro, that they would move closer to the edge of the forest, and she promised to ferry the blankets there as he went to eat and get the next load.

 

The others had worried for him and were glad to see him relatively alright, even if he seemed a little more slumped, a little less hopeful, and covered in a fine white dust that was the remains of numerous crumbled leaves. Spyro told them to be careful, as they had moved closer to the forest’s edge. He begged Sparx to leave for the swamp, thinking of what Cynder’s power had done to the rabbits. Images of a limp Sparx with a blood-soaked face haunted him.

 

But Sparx had smacked him in the muzzle for suggesting it and, at his brother’s baleful glare, promised to be careful.

 

As they ate, the Guardians seemed to grow nervous without explanation. Even the stiff guards grew slightly fidgety. Sparx rested on Spyro’s head, wings twitching sporadically and mouth twisted by a frown. Spyro, on the other hand, seemed to gain a little energy, though his tail slumped to the ground, when a faint tingle flooded the air.

 

“She’s closer!” he said, seeming to cheer up slightly for the first time that day.

 

Volteer and Terrador exchanged glances, and Spyro felt it was only now they truly understood how it pulled the energy from your limbs and made your bones feel loose and brittle.

 

“Fascinating,” Volteer said, clearly fighting to keep even his boundless energy intact. “Do you have an estimate of the radius of this level of her influence?”

 

“We tried to work that out. We think it’s about five minutes of me walking quickly, but we didn’t have a way to measure. It seems to be getting stronger slowly since I got here. Cyn thinks it’s because she’s happier.”

 

Terrador frowned. “It may also be because her powers have sapped some of your energy, which fits with what has befallen you. Hopefully the effect on you will be less, now that we are here too. We have one more load of attempts. I believe, if they fail, we should attempt the cell the next morning. Hunter is also going to have to go over the plants he has brought and what they do. It would be best if you had time to try to get used to them, but time is something we lack.”

 

“Volteer has confirmed that all her powers, bar the draining effect, are carried through sight, hearing and smell. You would be required to spend time lacking all three,” he continued, “should you wish to stay conscious and make the ride with Cynder.”

 

Spyro swallowed nervously at the thought of being carried along in the great steel box while that helpless, but nodded nonetheless.

 

“Does Blackie know you’re planning that?” Sparx asked, patting Spyro’s head. “I don’t think she’d approve.”

 

“We still have to talk about it,” Spyro said guiltily. “I’m not sure how to make her agree. Honestly, I’m not sure I could make the flight right now, but I haven’t wanted to discuss that, either.”

“The truth is often the best cure,” Terrador rumbled. “As we did not know to bring a sling for you, it would be difficult to carry you anywhere but inside the cell, especially with Hunter riding Volteer and myself holding much of the luggage. I believe she could stand to see the trust you hold in her as well. It is a powerful thing.”

 

“Why? Of course she’d never hurt me,” Spyro said, tilting his head and forcing Sparx to grab one golden horn to stay seated. “And if that can block the static, I’ll be fine. I just hope the case works.” He frowned, tail twitching.

 

“It should,” Volteer said, nodding as he reached a reassuring wing towards Spyro. “It is soundproof and has multiple layers of padding, which should prevent the vibration from being a problem. It’s also well-padded on the inside, which should help, and it has an advanced mechanism for reoxidizing the air.”

 

Spyro glanced over at the imposing steel box. It didn’t shine like polished metal, but seemed rough, tarnished and rusted. Terrador had explained that they’d had to pull something from the dungeons and refurbish it as best they could with the limited time they had. Of course they’d had to focus on the inside to make it as comfortable as possible.

 

He finished his meal and stepped towards the cell, studying it carefully. While a moment ago it had seemed to tower over him, up close he realized it wasn’t much taller than his standing height. That wasn’t surprising, considering the four adult guards were required carry its weight, along with two adolescent dragons, in the air. It was about two-and-a-half times his length and as wide as his wingspan, and it suddenly felt terribly small.

 

“I should get an idea of what it looks like in there now,” he said, trying to hide the weak catch in his throat and his nervous fascination with the container. He could tell Sparx had seen through the ploy in a second, as he patted Spyro once again, keeping to his unusual silence. Sparx had been the one to wake him up from, and talk him through, the nightmares of the Well of Souls, of boulders falling down to bury them all because he hadn’t been strong enough.

 

Hopefully if he got over it now, Cynder wouldn't have to witness his fear of it later. Spyro stretched forward with both forepaws and pulled the sturdy bars holding the door shut. They unlatched and slid open with a rumble that shook his legs.

 

It was just an over-glorified padded box. Sturdy leather adorned the walls, ceiling and floor, which he could see now were all a good two paw-lengths thick on their own. The padding doubled their thickness, greatly decreasing the space inside the box. As he drew in a deep breath and stepped up, he had to fold his wings to his side and duck his head. His horns brushed the padding of the ceiling, but whatever the leather had been treated with prevented them from piercing it. His head was forced down and his paws up, and his stomach flipped. He knew the padding was there to cushion heavy landings, should they lose balance or, ancestors forbid, be dropped over land or water.

 

That petrifying thought had him backing frantically out of the box, forcing his breath not to quicken. The thought of falling down and under the water, trapped in that padded cell, where nobody could find you.... Of being stuck there until the medicine wore off and the buzzing started up… Terrifying.

 

Spyro walked around the cell, holding stiff until he was out of the Guardians’ and the guards’ sight, hiding himself before the shaking started. There was no way they’d let him ride with her if they saw he was afraid. He couldn't accept that.

 

The Guardians’ conversation had continued on behind him, as they’d wanted to give him his privacy. Luckily, Volteer and Terrador had gotten too embroiled in some form of debate to notice his odd behavior. Hunter, however, had not missed it. He paced up beside Spyro and nodded to a cluster of trees a short way away, in the opposite direction to Cynder’s forest. Spyro followed him, teeth gritted.

 

“I have heard you discuss your dreams before, Spyro, when you first began to have them,” Hunter said, and Spyro wilted in slight shame. “If it would help, I will ride with Cynder and you may with Volteer. I have practiced with these herbs in the past, as all cheetahs do, so that if a healer must use them on us and we awaken in such a state, we will not panic wildly and harm ourselves or others. Cynder is my friend as well, and I am happy to help in any way I can.”

 

“She would understand,” Sparx said, buzzing up in front of Spyro. “She probably wouldn't want you to do it at all, especially if you're afraid.”

 

Spyro shook his head. “Thank you, Hunter, but I have to do this. For my sake, too.”

 

Hunter nodded. “If that is what you have decided. But I cannot blame you for your fears, and do not think anyone has a right to.” One paw rested between Spyro’s shoulders. “You are the bravest of any species I have had the pleasure to meet. Never think otherwise.”

 

“Thank you,” Spyro murmured, closing his eyes and drawing in a deep breath.  “What’s it like?” he asked after a moment.

 

“Incredibly hard to describe, but I will do my best.” Hunter sat down against a tree-trunk and motioned for Spyro to do the same. “What personally startled me the most was that my sense of taste was gone as well, as taste and smell are closely linked. Even with nothing in your mouth, it can be quite disconcerting. The mouth has its own inherent taste to it—something I, for one, did not realize until it was gone. The sense of smell goes first, and it’s hardly noticeable until it gets to the point where there is nothing there at all.”

 

Hunter studied Spyro carefully, but Spyro had no idea what he was searching for. “This may be different for you, as I do not believe dragons rely on smell to the extent we do, but it was very strange. The air seemed dead and old. After this was done, we were told to sit or lay down, as the other two are more disconcerting still.”

 

Spyro nodded.

 

“Sight began to fade slowly, but hearing was quicker. I was right next to my classmates at the time and, even fully prepared, it scared me to death. I couldn't help but think that they had stopped breathing. Only seeing their similar reactions snapped me out of it and helped me prepare. It was like the world and I were separated, and everything moving around me could not be real, because they were silent.

“By the time I tore myself away from the feeling, color had been sapped from the world. It was like a painter had replicated what I was meant to see all in shades of grey, and I could see them merging to one tone somewhere in the middle. Then even that began to vanish. I didn’t end up seeing black, like you would imagine—I could not find any color with my eyes. It was like I was trying to see with a foot, or something equally inadequate.”

 

“What was it like altogether?” Spyro murmured, working his jaw and running the tip of his tongue over his gums nervously, trying to find the taste there.

 

“It was an exercise in trust for us, as well,” Hunter said tersely. “And one of the tribe’s traditions I have never personally agreed with. It came from a time when trust was integral to our survival. We sat in a circle, holding paws so that was our only contact. We remained still, which will be very different than what you will do. But with that, the ground and each blade of grass seemed to grow in importance. Shifting weight  felt different, as well. I know my balance became better in the next few days, as it was one of the few things I could focus on. The paw I was holding finished the process after I had, and I felt Meadow tense and his claws unsheathe and shake before he calmed again. I believe they gave us the herbs in a specific order so that would happen. I hadn’t noticed Lark, the cat on my other side, do the same.”

 

Hunter stared into nothing for a moment, then closed his eyes and shook his head. “There was a strange peace to it, in all honesty. As time passed, we came to know better the things we felt. I realized later that I had become a better archer, as I could instinctively feel the wind without overthinking it. I had always been good with balance, but now I could zero in on it, because I knew what it was telling me without input from my other senses. However, while dead to the world, any discomfort, however small, was worse as well. I struck myself with my own bowstring, having forgotten my armguard, earlier that week, and the itch of it healing was hard to ignore without much else to focus on. I hope that this has helped.”

 

Spyro swallowed again, unable to sway from the thought that Hunter had just shared something very personal with him. He reached out a wing to touch him on the shoulder before furling it again helplessly. Sparx had slipped off without either of them noticing, no doubt sensing this was something he had no place in.

 

“Thank you,” Spyro said, thinking Hunter would not necessarily appreciate a hug. He paced in front of him, bent his forelegs, and lowered his head in a little bow. “Thank you for sharing this with me. It helps. I feel more prepared.”

 

Hunter raised an eyebrow before grabbing Spyro and pulling his shaking form into a hug. “If you do, then you are doing something wrong. You have every right to be nervous. You have every right to be afraid. And you have every right to back out if you think this is not something you can handle.”

 

Spyro helplessly shook his head into the cheetah’s shoulder. “I will do this for Cynder, and for myself,” he said, his breath ruffling the fur under his muzzle. “She needs to know I’m not afraid of her, and I need proof, real proof, that she’s there. I keep worrying I’ll wake up and this will all have been a dream.”

 

His friend held him tighter as he worried on.

 

Unsurprisingly for everyone involved, the other knick-knacks that were meant to be useful all failed terribly, leaving Spyro weak, tired and afraid. And Cynder knew something was wrong from the moment she read what he had written. She had come to know his writing very well over the week, and it was not usually this shaky.

 

He had stopped her before she’d gotten as close as usual, and some of the bravado he’d been showing seemed to fade. When they were done testing, she had been forced to scrawl a demand on their latest tree they were using for messages before he finally wrote her a shaky response detailing his intent—and his assurances that it was not her he was afraid of, and why.

 

Upon seeing the note he’d left her, she had frozen with a stiffness unusual for her strange fluid form. She had felt boneless and fake since she’d come to be like this; in her head, it was like her body was formed of a wispy yet solid vapor. She pressed her forehead against the bark and its words, wishing it felt normal. Whatever caused her not to leave footsteps also left her strangely separate from anything she tried to touch, and she was left wanting what she used to have.

 

Ancestors, to actually be able to _see_ Spyro, awake and present, and not to be hurting him just by being there. She trusted Volteer’s knowledge enough to believe it would work if he said as much. But Spyro had fought for her enough, hadn’t he? He didn’t need to do this, too. But, knowing his insecurity, there was a chance he would take her refusal, or her request to let Hunter do it, to mean she did not want him there. And she did with a desperation she couldn't put to words. Since he had found her, the world had seemed a little less like it was dying violently around her. He seemed to lend her both energy and hope, which she hadn’t had in what felt like forever.

 

But her answer would determine this, whether or not Spyro believed he could handle it. If she said she wanted him there, he would be there. If she said she did not, he wouldn't.

 

She wanted a second opinion, one she couldn’t have. She wanted to talk to Hunter, hear herself what he had told Spyro—which he had relayed with little detail, saying he felt he shouldn't, for Hunter’s privacy. She understood that, but it made her uncertain. In the end, she left a message she hoped would lead him to his own decision.

 

_Of course I want you there, Spyro. But I also haven’t been truly afraid of things like tight spaces since I was changed. Whatever I am now does not fear them, but I do remember it. You were not the only one who suffered nightmares of when we were trapped._

 

_If you are worried for me, that I may have claustrophobia, I highly doubt that will come to pass. The dark will not bother me, and neither have I become nauseous or afraid of water. But these fears are not wrong, Spyro. I swear to you, I have had many of them as well._

 

_I care for you, and if you feel you want to do this and believe you can, I will not stop you. Likewise, I would never fault you for backing out. I would feel comfortable with Hunter._

 

_So, more than anything, I want you to think about this, and think carefully. You say these herbs can only wear off and not be cured, and you would have to remain like that for the whole journey. There would be no turning back._

 

_We could also do this another time. There is no pressing need for us to make this journey together. I have faced a year of boredom and loneliness, and I can survive a week or so more, knowing you are close, especially if Hunter will be there._

 

_Think about this until the morning. I will take no decision from you before then. If you wish to do this and feel you can, just tell me how to proceed._

 

_I love you,_

_Cynder_

 

She had left it there, hoping to a point that he would just say _yes_ , but wanting him to think carefully and do what was best for him. In truth, the thought of not even being able to move or see the slight differences she could find to look at within her forest terrified her.

  


Spyro tried to follow her wishes, but he felt like he had agonized about this decision for long enough. He also flinched at the idea of making Hunter go through that again, and in such a different environment. There would be no stillness there, but near-constant rocking and the knowledge of being trapped in something heavy over open water. Once more, he had to beat that horrible thought out of his head as he fought to sleep.

When he finally did fall asleep, it was to dreams of boulders crushing him down into endless water, his bones being shaken apart, and the world being overtaken by shades of grey. The nightmares did not let him sleep for long, and he could only pray he had not screamed or cried in his slumber, or at least gone unheard if he had.

 

With bleary eyes and wilted wings, he ferried the final group of failed trials back to the Guardians and confirmed their plans. He and Hunter would stay, while the others left. Hunter had claimed privacy due to tribe traditions, but Spyro was positive that was a lie. Regardless, he was grateful for it. Sparx had only agreed to leave when Spyro had explained his great fear of accidentally hurting the dragonfly if he moved wrongly—and he had enough to worry about without that too.

 

He had let Cynder know of the plan, and that, when it was time, Hunter would blow a small horn, which he kept to call his hawk to him. Then they had shooed the others away to discuss in private what the best way to work around Spyro’s fear would be.

 

Spyro, after a long time of thinking, had decided going into the box blind was the more terrifying option. Thus, he would get as settled as he could inside it before taking the mixture. He also spent the time taking some almost-as-unpleasant concoctions, which forced his body to purge his digestive system, slowed and lessened his need for food, and nullified any lingering hunger pains. Then he’d forced down some—again, almost equally unpleasant—food that Hunter explained contained the nutrients needed, but lacked anything the body would process quickly into waste.

 

It made no sense whatsoever to Spyro, even after Hunter had assured him there was no shortage of magic involved. He was left very thankful that Hunter had chased the others away.

 

A small padded box was attached to the floor and one wall of the cell, filled with more of that deplorable food, blankets, the small amount of water he could drink during the journey, spirit gems, and a complex clock made to click and inform Cynder when to help him eat and take a few mouthfuls of water. There was also a note detailing when and how to use everything.

 

To add insult to injury, Hunter insisted on covering Spyro’s claw-tips, horn-tips, and tail-blade with a wax that stuck and hardened. It was barely noticeable, but dulled the sharp points to prevent any possible accidents—and the possibility of him hurting anyone involved, or himself, should he panic and flail.

 

It was with a grim expression that Hunter finally turned to Spyro—who, by now, was even more uncomfortable with the whole affair—and said tiredly that they better get as comfortable as they could.

 

Spyro’s stomach flipped uncertainly and he looked at the cell. It was like a great maw fit to swallow him if he stepped into it, and then he’d be lost to the world, body and mind. He set his stance, gritted his teeth, nodded, and stepped forward as Hunter lay a paw between his shoulders.

 

The sun was setting behind the cell, and just stepping into the long shadow it cast sent a cold chill down his spine. Spyro poked the cushion unhappily, imagining what it would be like to feel it and it alone, and have little else to think about. Hunter looked at him, then grabbed his cloak and pulled up the tattered rim.

 

He tore off the end and straightened again before wrapping the surprisingly soft cloth around Spyro’s neck like a scarf, leaving the two tail-ends resting limply over his chest. Hunter then proceeded to test the fabric, to make sure it would break before it could cut off Spyro’s air, and poked a few careful claw-holes to ensure it would tear under any significant pressure. Spyro raised a shaking paw to touch the gift. He nodded his thanks, not trusting his voice, and took the first step.

 

The leather sank under his paw, and he couldn't help but liken it to stepping into quicksand and first realizing something must be horribly wrong. The clammy leather did not swallow his foot, though; it stopped and only sank deeper when he put more weight on it. He let the weight of his front-half fall on it, lifting the other forepaw, and it fell and rose slightly and brought him with it. Slightly nauseous, he set the other paw down and his weight was rocked side-to-side. His horns clipped the roof and he jerked his head down in surprise.

 

Through it all, Hunter’s soft paw stayed between his shoulderblades. He did not comment, rub Spyro’s back, or even look at him with pity. He was just there. And it was what Spyro needed as he shifted his weight to one of his back legs, avoiding moving his forepaws too much, and finally stepped fully into the cell.

 

The padding trembled and moved under his weight, causing him to flare his wings out to catch his balance, but one hit the wall with enough force to send the floor-pad rocking back-and-forth and the other slapped Hunter in the side, eliciting a sharp intake of breath.

 

Spyro turned, trying to find his voice to apologize, but Hunter lifted a paw and murmured that it was fine. Nodding gratefully, Spyro drew in a dry breath, closed his eyes, and paced forward blindly. He pushed the waking nightmares from his mind, until his muzzle hit the back wall with a _thump_.

 

He turned around and sat, the leather rocking uncomfortably under him. Hunter had to all but crawl to his side and slid into a sitting position beside him, once again resting a paw calmly around his shaking shoulders.

 

They waited until Spyro’s shivers had calmed, as the shadows outside grew and time stretched on. Finally, Hunter turned to him with a serious expression. “This is your last chance to turn back, Spyro.”

 

Spyro shrank to his side upon realizing the same thing.

 

“It is your choice.”

 

Spyro nodded mutely to show he understood, then closed his eyes and drew in one deep breath after another. With a sad attempt at a smile, he turned to his friend and motioned with a paw. His throat was dry and raw, like he should be crying. His shaking made the floor-padding quiver, which made him dizzy, and the worry was paralyzing, but so many people were waiting for him. And Cynder was in pain.

 

Hunter nodded, his thumb rubbing Spyro’s shoulder as he reached into his satchel and pulled from it a wooden bottle and a carved cup. Carefully, he tipped the bottle over, letting the liquid pour out until the cup was about half full. Each drop made Spyro flinch slightly, his stomach sinking. In all honesty, he had never considered the loss of all three senses would be the price of staying with Cynder, or pictured the cell as being so gut-wrenchingly small.

 

He stared at the cup as Hunter put a small orb under it and pressed it. He recognized it as a lighter—a small candle was within, with hotly burning fuel, and the button either caused a spark or snuffed it out. Hunter used it to warm the cup until a thin trail of steam rose from it.

 

The drink seemed far too innocent for what it would do, smelling of brewed tea mixed with mint and honey.

 

“You’ll stay?” Spyro asked.

 

“Until it is over and you tell me to go and call her.”

 

“Thank you.” Before he could change his mind, Spyro took the cup, resisting the mad urge to toss the damned, precious contents to the floor. He swallowed it in one go. His stomach heaved with the desire to retch it up, though it tasted mostly of honey and even did something to soothe his parched throat.

 

Hunter silently took the cup back and returned it and the bottle to his satchel. Spyro shivered and twitched, feeling like there should have been something definably different. But there wasn’t, and some small part of him hoped it would not work.

 

“How long until it starts?”

 

“I can keep track and let you know, if that will help. Volteer worked out a very close estimate for when it will begin, if you want to hear it, though I would advise against it.”

 

Shadows of wild possibilities crawled through Spyro’s conscience. What if it wore off mid-flight somehow? Or if they were stopped? Or if he never got better...

 

“Alright.” He was left to watch the prison’s shadow crawl over the ground, as the thickly padded walls seemed to reach out and grasp at him, aiming to crush. He tried closing his eyes, but it was like he could still feel them there, waiting, and the thought of missing those precious few minutes of sight remaining for him was petrifying.

 

The creeping shadows were depressing, so he settled on looking at his friend’s face. Hunter was tapping one claw on his knee, and Spyro was sure it was to keep track of time. The air he breathed was dry and tasteless, and did little to soothe his catapulting stomach or his dry throat. He played with his mouth nervously, once again running his tongue over his gums, but jolted when he found something wrong.

 

The action tickled his tongue, but besides that, there was no difference than when he had held it idle. His mouth seemed dead and sterile and, realizing what that meant, he made the mistake of drawing in a calming breath through his nose.

 

The air was cold, but had no scent or flavor to it, causing him to stiffen as Hunter held him closer, the soft downy fur of his arm rubbing reassuringly against scale.

 

Spyro breathed deeply, staring at a small multi-hued spirit gem Hunter had withdrawn, which shed a rainbow of lights over the reddish-brown leather as the light outside faded into dusk. Hunter had said that sight would start to fade next, and very slowly, and hearing would follow soon after. He was granting Spyro the ability to prepare and be aware of what exactly was befalling him, and he was grateful not to have to wait and wonder in the dark and the silence.

 

His friend’s shoulder seemed to vibrate, and a faint, scratchy rumble filled the small cell. Spyro looked at Hunter oddly, his eyes closed, his chest rumbling, and his claw continuing to tap rhythmically. It took some time before before Spyro realized that the warrior was _purring._

 

A weak smile tugged at the edges of his mouth and his gratitude only increased. He had never even considered that the cheetah tribe was capable of such a sound, cats or not.

 

It was then he realized that Hunter’s vibrant gold fur was slightly off, looking paler and dustier than it should. He turned his eyes to the spirit gem, thinking it would be easier to watch that fade and lose form than the face of a dear friend. He was braced for when the purring seemed to fade out, knowing it was only him and not that the sound had quieted. Spyro focused his eyes forward again, blinking as something bright and faintly yellow fluttered into view outside of the box.

 

Sparx smirked at him cheekily before flying into his face and landing in a sitting position on the tip of his muzzle. He mouthed something Spyro couldn't hear over the beating of his own heart, but judging from the circumstance and expression, he was sure was some form of “Did you really think you could keep me away?”

 

Hunter said something completely mute to the dragonfly, maybe an explanation that Spyro couldn't hear them, and Sparx clearly tutted disapprovingly. His bright color continued to fade at an agonizingly slow rate.

 

Sparx smirked, stuck his tongue out, and playfully shouted something Spyro was sure _must_ be a jab at his weight. He then proceeded to fly forward and recline comfortably on Spyro’s snout like it was a chair, hands pillowed behind his head. Spyro glared cross-eyed at him, claustrophobia all but forgotten in the wake of an odd mix of amusement, irritation and fondness he associated only with his brother.

 

The world was all in shades of gray, Sparx being the brightest thing in it, and those shades had begun to blur and fade. Spyro stiffened again with knowledge of what was coming next. Hunter continued to purr silently beside him and he could feel Sparx’s hand rubbing his nose, until the dragonfly left. Spyro was sure Sparx was trying to save him some worry over accidentally hurting him.

 

He saw the fading pinprick of light disappear behind what he knew must be the cell’s walls, and then the world was completely uniform—almost pitch-black and darkening. But it was also hard to find, like looking for something faint at night, but instead of dark, there was nothing, and it was overtaking what little he could still see until there was nothing left at all, like he had no eyes and never had.

 

The twitching floor below him, and the vibrating fur and cloth on his scales, were his whole world. Not even the faint thrum of his heart played in his ears. The air seemed dead to his nose. And he silently wished to see blackness, for it would be better than this.

 

Hunter’s paw began to rub in circles and, with nothing else to hear, see or taste, Spyro’s mind zeroed in on it. He could feel how Hunter’s pawpads dipped and rose as they crossed each scale, over the slight curve of his own shoulder, which he’d never thought to notice. He raised a paw shakily, his stomach flipping when the unsteady flooring dipped and swayed as he changed his weight. It left him frozen when it finally steadied, one paw dangling uselessly in the air. He dropped it again helplessly.

 

Hunter gave him another warm squeeze before helping to lower him to his belly, the rough pawpads on each shoulder moving him so he was leaning down and against the side of the cell. The cheetah must have stood up, judging by the dizzying shaking of the padded floor. The paws left his shoulders and a soft tail-tip replaced it, probably to reassure him that Hunter wasn’t leaving yet, like he had promised. Another faint vibration rumbled through him before he felt a paw on his shoulder once again, and then something soft and warm wrapped around him.

 

Spyro had felt everything they had packed, and he recognized it as one of the blankets. Feeling terribly cut off as it was spread over his wings, he lowered his head onto his forepaws, noticing the scarce wind from the outside world for the first time. The fear of this place had dulled without any real sense of how small it was, but the thought of that little fresh air on his face being taken away from him was horrible.

 

The floor jerked and he knew Hunter must be either kneeling or sitting beside him. He knew the cheetah would wait for his signal to leave, no matter how long it took. An arm once again slung over his shoulder.

 

With every breath, Hunter’s fur ruffled against the scales on the back of Spyro’s neck and shoulders. The purring started up again, vibrating against the blanket and causing it to quiver and trace patterns around him. He could understand the peace Hunter had found in this, but the week or so he would spend like this already felt like forever. Spyro felt strangely numb now, separate from a world that didn’t seem real. The thought of being alone like this, with no one there at all, even for the short time it took Cynder to get there, was terrifying.

 

It was the kind of terror that would only grow with time. And so he turned his head, forced a sad attempt at a smile, and motioned it towards where the door would be, jumping when one of his horns nudged the leather padding. Hunter’s paw went to his shoulder, ruffling the scarf, maybe to make sure he remembered it was there. Spyro lifted one paw to grasp the worn cloth desperately. His other paw kneaded the padding.

 

Each little movement shook his small world, one of spongy walls and the slight taste of wind, of the scarf’s pressure around his neck, and the center of his world—the soft pad and fur on his shoulder that squeezed, each hair tickling his scales. Claws unsheathed, resting for a moment on his scales. He had to hold a cry in his chest, realizing this was his friend’s way of saying goodbye. At least, he thought he had held in the wordless complaint, but Hunter’s paw seemed to tense.

 

Before Spyro could think, furred arms were wrapped around his shoulders and his face pressed against cloth he recognized from his scarf, rounding back. Thinking that had to be Hunter’s shoulder, he lifted his chin and rested it on the arch. Longer fur and slightly more wiry strands of something rubbed and tickled his cheek. Some of the fur seemed damp and, after precious seconds of trying to figure things out, he realized the cheetah must have tear-tracks running down his cheek.

 

Spyro tried to say that Hunter didn’t need to cry for him, but he could only feel his throat rumbling, with no idea if it sounded right at all.

 

Hunter only held him tighter, his purring quivering through fur and cloth. His throat was thrumming against Spyro’s scales and he was sure something was being said, but then the hands were loosening and he couldn’t help the low whine he was sure had escaped him. It was surprisingly hard to stop your voice when you couldn't hear it going off.

 

Hunter’s paws rested bracingly on his shoulders as Spyro quivered. The world around him suddenly seemed so small and crushing, and he had to resist stretching his wings because he knew they’d only hit cushion and he’d only feel worse.

 

His shoulders got one final squeeze, and he could feel the floor trembling and shaking as Hunter must have gotten up. The worst part was that he could sense every step, feel every tremble of his small world. His stomach jumped and churned at the sensation, moments away from heaving out nothing. But it was still worse when the trembling lessened, his friend drawing further away. And then it was only shaking slightly and, finally, that last bit of contact faded into nothing.

 

The rubbery leather seemed to chafe on him with every rise and fall of his ribs, and he couldn’t help but think there were malicious eyes boring into him from all angles, leaving him to shrink into his corner and never wish to leave. He couldn’t help but think of enemies appearing, or of Sparx having broken his promise and come back, of turning wrong and feeling the little segmented body breaking under him.

 

Spyro rested his paws over his muzzle, his chin rubbing against the padded floor. He tried to press himself into the corner, but jerked away with a gulp when one hindpaw slid into a gap where he knew the floor and ceiling cushions were pulled to a seam at the box’s edges. Though his logical mind informed him of that, he couldn't help but imagine the quicksand again, pulling down his legs and holding them and never letting him go. Suddenly the blanket felt malicious, tugging on him as he tried to move, getting caught under his feet as the floor forced him to dip and sway and grow sicker still to his stomach.

 

It was a short, frantic struggle until he hit the other wall and collapsed in a panting heap, doing his best to ignore the soft pressure thoroughly trapping three of his paws and pinning his wings to his sides. He drew his extremities close to him, miserable, his stomach still flipping and swaying even when the floor stilled.

 

Then he was left to wait and wonder why it felt like the world, and his every breath, tickled by in a separate eternity. Hunter’s mixtures had also been made to suppress his elements, and it took until then to notice the great aching hole in his chest that their power should occupy. It was nothing like when Gaul or dark gems had removed them, or even how he’d lost them after his fight with Cynder. It was like they had never been there at all, leaving a yearning in their wake.

 

Closer to the center of the box, he felt the night wind pillowing around him. Each breath felt dead, the tasteless wind beating cruelly on his scales and stinging his wing membranes. Every ache and pain—from sleeping in the cold and barely taking care of himself—had been awakened by his straining against the blanket. He couldn't even hear the rubbery skritch he knew the damned cell made with every movement of its occupant. Anything he touched seemed fake and ethereal, without sound, scent or sight to go with it.

 

He waited, heart in his throat, for the floor to dip and shudder at her footsteps. Eternity stretched on, mindless of the pain it caused him.

 

The world seemed colder than it ought to be, and the blanket did nothing to fight the cold that clawed and burrowed into his flesh and scales. It reminded him of the suffocating haze the forest had forced upon him.

 

A chill rushed up his spine and his body seemed to freeze. Had it not worked? After all this time, was there a possibility he would be shaken to splinters by her power? Faint traces of cold traced his legs and back, like frost-covered spiders. It felt like freezing water was spreading over him, the cold piercing into his muscles in pins and needles, leaving him wilted and sore.

 

And then something smooth and warm pressed against his forehead, causing his heart to leap and shatter simultaneously in startled fear. At that touch, the cold seemed to lesson, the ice thawed, and the sick twitching of his stomach began to ease. She was there and so was he. And, though a little chilled, the buzzing was not threatening to shake him apart.

 

Ancestors, she was well and truly _there_. He was too numbed by relief to think as the blanket was pulled away from him and laid neatly again on his back, falling around his haunches as he straightened. Able to ignore the sickening lurches underpaw for the first time since he had entered, Spyro raised a paw and reached blindly, hopefully forward. After some blind searching, it met silken-smooth cloth that hung limp around a foreleg.

 

Stretching out his own foreleg, he moved his paw down until he found hers mostly buried in a too-long sleeve. He pushed that aside and traced his claws over normal toes, until he found where the claws should be and stopped. Instead of claws, he found long, twisted tendrils that spread from her paw and caused him to catch his breath, fighting his instincts to flinch. He had to remind himself who this was and what harm a mere flinch—a gesture of fear—could do to her. Drawing in a slow breath, he slipped his toes under her paw, wrapped his own around it, and squeezed. He had been honest when he’d sworn that she was not what he feared.

 

The lithe paw hung limp, tendrils trailing from his grip, for a few moments. Finally, tentatively, the paw turned, wrist swiveling until pawpad met pawpad. Cool, soft tendrils twined around his wrist and stilled.

 

Adjusting his weight to his haunches, Spyro lifted his other foreleg and traced from the paw he held, up to her neck and shoulders, cloth ruffling under his touch. Thinking of Hunter’s actions, he wrapped his foreleg around her shoulders—forced to pause and work his way through another mass of tendrils along her neck and back—and pulled her to him.

 

The cloth that covered her pressed against his chest, and she had to move her muzzle from his forehead. It scared him to death that there was no pulse in her wrist, and so he clutched her to him to prove she was real. She ran her nose over his cheeks, smearing and chasing away the tears he hadn’t noticed falling.

 

The case trapping them closed with a rumble and a great crash he could only feel through the shaking floor. She remained oddly still as he was rocked by the impact. And then he was shuddering again, thinking of gaping oceans and the medicine failing and how she’d be trapped with his dead body, guilty and tearing herself apart inside. How the walls were closing in and the floor was quicksand and there was no way out and now there were two of them in there and even less room and what if she thought he was shaking in fear of her and—

 

Her paws were on his shoulders in a second and this time she was pulling him to her chest. Something long and slim, made of cloth, fluttered by the ends of his scarf. Her skin was strange and she lacked a pulse, but there was warmth to her embrace that reminded him he was not the sole living thing there—and why he trusted her as he did.

 

They stayed like that for a stretch of time, and only when their prison began to rise and sway did she help him lie down again and curl around him, her paws and head resting on his shoulders as he shook with worry. But that shaking calmed with time.

 

With her beside him, the jolting prison seemed to sway in a rhythm that coaxed his sightless eyes to stop searching, to close and rest, and reminded his frantic heart to remember that things were not yet over, that his best friend and love might yet be saved, a wish he murmured and uttered in his sleep. A stream of hopes and promises left his slumbering form, which he could not hear or clearly say outside of pleasant dreams.

 

And she, wreathed in a cold, hard and lost place, curled around him and forced to remain agonizingly awake, believed them.

  


_“Just close your eyes, the sun is going down_

_You’ll be alright, no one will hurt you now_

_Come morning light, you and I will be safe and sound.”_

  
Safe and Sound, Taylor Swift, The Hunger Games  
  



End file.
